


The Right to Remain Silent

by FearNoEvil



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Crimes & Criminals, Detective Noir, Developing Friendships, Drama & Romance, F/M, Gen, Gun Violence, Human Trafficking, Organized Crime, Suicide, buddy cop show
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-19 19:11:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5978053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FearNoEvil/pseuds/FearNoEvil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective Hamilton, loose cannon maverick cop, record-holder of most arrests and most shots fired, has been out of action, much to his displeasure, since his previous partner's suicide. When he comes back to work, Detective Burr thinks Captain Washington has it in for him when he gets assigned as Hamilton's new partner.  Meanwhile, Johnny Laurens, son of New York's most prominent mob boss, struggles with his heritage and the Family's latest enterprise, and decides to take the law into his own hands . . .</p><p>Or the Buddy Cop/Crime AU I anonymously gushed about all over tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ruined Pride

**Author's Note:**

> For your satisfaction, my esteemed and admired friends, I answer the call, eventually.
> 
> Your Obedient Servant,  
> The Crime AU Anon

_New York, NY – On the morning of May 24, New York City Police Department detective Peter Lytton, 43, was found dead in his residence in lower Manhattan. Police and CSI who arrived at the scene all agreed that the likely cause of death was suicide with his own service weapon. According to police who arrived shortly after the body was called in, the gun was still in Detective Lytton’s hand when he arrived and all investigation, ballistics and fingerprints confirms that Lytton was alone in his apartment, and aimed and fired the gun at his own head._

  
_Lytton leaves behind an impressive legacy at the 76th Precinct, including a standing record of most successful arrests per month for the last two years, which he shared with his partner, Detective Alexander Hamilton, who declined to comment on his partner’s death. Detective Lytton left behind no note. A bachelor, Detective Lytton is survived by one sister, Ann Mitchell. Memorial services for Detective Lytton will be held at 10am next Saturday at Trinity Church._

 

_* * *_

  
The June heat blazed through the air, sultry and stifling as a fever. It would be, on this day, reflected Captain Washington of the 76th Precinct. He ought to better prepare for the heat he knew he had to take today, but the AC was broken, and Detective Jay had taken his precious box fan home because he needed it to sleep. Everyone rolled up their shirtsleeves and fanned themselves with stray file folders. They were all being especially considerate of their dear captain today, because they, too, knew the challenges he was facing.

  
Burr was the first of these challenges to arrive – the lesser challenge, he knew. Solemnly he summoned the young detective to the office to tell him the news. He remained calmly seated while Burr stood in front of his desk to listen. Burr stared long and hard before asking one single question.

  
“Do you hate me, sir?”

  
“Now why would you think that, Detective Burr?” He kept the professional ‘Detective’ in addressing him without difficulty. It was more difficult with other officers.

  
“Assigning me to Hamilton, the most notoriously trigger-happy loose cannon in this entire precinct?” hinted Burr.

  
“Whereas _your_ record, sir, is notoriously – uneventful,” returned Washington. “Bizarrely for a member of the police force, you’re clearly adept at keeping out of trouble – and at this point, I need someone to keep Hamilton out of too much trouble.”

  
“Are you certain you don’t want him to drag me _into_ trouble, sir?”

  
Washington’s patience was so oddly short with this particular detective, but he kept his voice authoritative and calm. “Detective Burr, I won’t disguise from you that your performances here I have found almost as troubling as Hamilton’s. You’ve left multiple cases open, and have made less total arrests in your career than Hamilton made in the last month. So, yes, if ‘dragging you into trouble’ is how you want to put it, I wouldn’t mind at all if Hamilton dragged you into a bit more trouble. It’s not our job to play it safe.”

  
“Look sir,” said Burr, wiping sweat from his forehead and doing a much better job than Washington at keeping the irritation out of his voice, “With all due respect, I don’t even know Hamilton, but our styles would just completely clash. Everyone here says the man is crazy, and he’s bound to be even more on-edge after what happened to Lytton. Perhaps, sir, rather than a new partner, if I was assigned subordinates to do the groundwork and occupied a more of a directorial position–”

  
“No,” returned Washington at once. “I believe you and Hamilton will complement each other’s styles, and I’m afraid that’s my final word on the subject. Hamilton is your partner, Burr, and you will respect him as such. Dismissed.”

  
Burr gave a polite nod of acknowledgement, muttered, “Sir,” and withdrew. He needed a drink. Preferably cold. Preferably soon.

  
He swung the door open, and to his mortification, he found Detective Hamilton himself waiting outside the captain’s office, arms crossed, and a dark scowl on his face.

  
“Did you – hear that?” Burr asked him sheepishly.

  
“Most of it,” confirmed Hamilton, barely looking at him as he glared through the three-quarters-shut Venetian blinds, trying to catch the Captain’s eye and include him in the ferocity of his glower.

  
“Sorry,” Burr offered quickly, “It was nothing – personal . . .”

  
“Don’t worry; I don’t want to work with you, either,” returned Hamilton. “And you made a number of excellent points that I think the captain dismissed prematurely. I’ll go in there and make him see reason.”

  
“Well, good luck,” said Burr sincerely.

  
“Thanks.”

  
Burr gave another nod of acknowledgement, and then hurried away to avoid the heat of the confrontation.

  
Washington immediately stood up as Hamilton entered his office. He found he would always eventually end up on his feet when he and Hamilton spoke, and it gave him the crucial height advantage that he hoped highlighted his authority. Hamilton looked slightly paler than usual, his eyes tired and lined. To all conscious appearance, however, he was as ready and professional as ever, with his dark hair carefully pulled back into a ponytail and clean white button-down shirt beneath his trademark leather bomber jacket. He, at least, seemed to have no objection to this infernal weather.

  
“Hamilton,” said Washington immediately as he stepped through the door, before Hamilton said a word. “How are you?”

  
This was an effective tactic, for the moment at least. Hamilton, who had perhaps been planning to start straight off with shouting, was forced to take a breath and grate out a civil reply. “Fine, sir.” Without skipping a beat, however, he continued, “But sir, I came to speak to you about –”

  
“You have your reservations about my assigning Detective Burr as your new partner,” said Washington preemptively.

  
Hamilton nodded, took several more intent steps forward until his feet were touching Washington’s desk. “Yes. With all due respect, sir, you must be out of your _goddamn_ mind if you think that’s going to work out for anyone involved.”

  
Washington stayed calm. His patience with Hamilton was, by contrast, decidedly longer, though not without limit. “So I presumed. Is your objection to Burr in particular?”

  
“No, sir. I don’t want a partner at all, is my objection. You’ve seen how well I do with partners. Clearly, working with me just makes people want to blow their brains out.”

  
Hamilton’s voice cracked on the last syllable and he looked away as Washington’s shoulders slumped in resigned pity. This is what he’d been afraid of. “Son –” he began, but when he heard a sharp intake of breath he amended quickly. “Hamilton,” he said, “what happened with Detective Lytton was _not_ your fault.”

  
“I knew the case was getting to both of us,” Hamilton insisted faintly, not meeting the captain’s eye. “I knew it, but I kept pushing – I thought – I _drove_ him –” His voice died again, his fists clenched, his face contorted, and he abruptly turned and viciously kicked the desk. The poor desk already had a decent scuff mark on its front, and not quite all of it was Hamilton’s handiwork. Washington was glad that he had taken the precaution to preemptively lay his photograph of Martha and the kids down on its side. It had been knocked over enough times already. After another moment and few deep breaths, Hamilton said softly, “I’m sorry, sir.”

  
With a sigh Washington walked decisively around his desk and put his hand on Hamilton’s slumped shoulder. “Alexander,” he said, “why don’t you take a few more days off?”

  
Hamilton’s frame, from being defeated enough to meekly accept the captain’s hand on his shoulder, jolted immediately back into fight mode as he squirmed out of the touch. “No _thank you_ , sir,” he said. “I didn’t want any to begin with!”

  
“It’s best to make sure we’ve had time to process,” Washington returned evenly. “I was younger than you are now when _my_ first partner died. And I was glad I had –”

  
“With all due respect, sir, I am not _you,”_ Hamilton interrupted.

  
Washington sighed and let that slide, biting back a retort. He mopped his sweat and wondered whose usage of ‘with all due respect’ was less sincere. He really shouldn’t stand for it. But if he didn’t stand for it, he wouldn’t have a precinct – and he knew at the end of the day that most of the ire his officers spat at him was only heat-of-the-moment. And so the 76th’s entirely justified reputation as a bunch of hotheads was his cross to bear; and he bore it more or less graciously, because he knew they got results.

  
Hamilton had not ceased to speak. “And compelling me to stare at a wall in a dark, silent apartment while other people solve my cases for one more _hour_ is – is _not_ the way to help me, sir. My only satisfaction is _justice.”_

  
“Did you spend the whole time alone?” Washington demanded.

  
“It’s not like I have any family in New York. And who _else_ would want to spend it with me?”

  
_I would have_ , Washington barely stopped himself from saying. Instead he said, “What about Ann? You could have seen Ann.”

  
“Like she wants to see _me,_ after I got her brother killed!” Hamilton shot back.

  
It was another pang to the captain’s heart. “Hamilton –”

  
“You can’t make me take any more time off, sir,” Hamilton insisted. “I passed the psych eval. I need to get back on the streets.”

  
“Lucky for you,” said Washington with another sigh, “I just spoke with the DA about your situation –”

  
_“Oh,”_ Hamilton grinned, “What did _Angelica_ have to say about me?”

  
It was somehow reassuring to the captain that Hamilton could still find the brazenness to flirt with District Attorney Schuyler. “She was of the opinion that going back to work would be the best thing for you.”

  
“Bless her!” interjected Hamilton.

  
“But she also agreed that you should be partnered with Detective Burr.”

  
“Screw her!” interjected Hamilton.

  
“So you have two options, Hamilton,” said Washington. “You can either take another week off, or you can begin work as Detective Burr’s partner.”

  
“No,” said Hamilton eagerly, “you see I thought about it, sir, and there’s a third option you’re missing. If you promoted me, gave me command of a few officers, sir, I could _lead_ investigations –”

  
“You know I can’t do that, Hamilton. Ms. Schuyler already warned me I’m too free with my promotions. And usually it requires solving a big case. I just promoted Detective Lee for solving yours.”

  
“You promoted _Lee?”_ Hamilton demanded furiously. “He’s an _idiot!”_

  
“Your fellow law enforcers deserve your respect, Alexander,” said Washington in a warning tone.

  
“But _I_ was the one who found the crucial evidence – he just went from there! I would have solved – we – Peter and I – if I hadn’t – if _he_ hadn’t –”

  
Hamilton’s voice faltered again, and he again kicked the desk and swore loudly.

  
Washington crossed his arms sternly. Once was perhaps a permissible slip given the circumstances. Twice was childishness. _“That,”_ he said, “is definitely not the way to show me you deserve a promotion.”

  
Hamilton only glared spitefully back and offered no apology. The remainder of Washington’s forbearance, so long mired by pity, flowed away. “Detective Burr is your new partner, Hamilton. It’s either that or you go home. I’m sorry you feel it's lose-lose, but I need to know your decision.”

  
“You know I could quit,” Hamilton threatened, his voice rising again. “I could go be a PI, be my _own_ boss, and at least there I'd get respect!”

  
Washington was pleased, because despite appearances, this was progress. The threat to quit was always the last argument Hamilton would spit at him when he ran out of better ones. “You know you’d never be satisfied as a PI, Hamilton. You’d never make the same difference. No one uses PIs anymore.”

  
Hamilton nodded in resigned agreement. “But sir,” he protested, “Detective Burr and I have completely opposing philosophies about law enforcement! How are he and I ever to have an equal partnership if we can’t empathize with each other’s methods?”

  
Washington was unmoved. “Figure it out, Alexander. Rookies do every day.”

  
“And you’re _sure_ I can’t be promoted?” he asked one more time.

  
Something like amusement flickered across the captain’s face. “You might have more in common with Detective Burr than you think, Hamilton.”

  
Hamilton shook his head, but eventually said, “Fine.”

  
“You’ve chosen?”

  
“Yes.” Alexander gave a long-suffering sigh. “I suppose Detective Burr is the lesser of two evils.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know IRL Alexander Hamilton was actually eager to work with Burr on many occasions, but this Alex is feeling surly. Laurens shows up soon, I promise, a bit in Chapter 2 but fleshed out in 3! 
> 
> I was going to do an experiment known as "shorter and more frequent chapters" but I have a lot of trouble being concise, and even more doing things quickly, so we'll see how that goes. It turns out even just anonymously spewing your excitement for a given project ends up with people expecting things from you, alas. (Jokes aside, I'm glad I did, so I could get the push I needed.)
> 
> Title-wise I started out with the very boring "These New York City Streets", for a while entertained the idea to just straight-up call it "Miranda Rights" but eventually concluded that the classic Miranda rights warning that a suspect has "the right to remain silent" was an interesting concept to explore with the relationship between Alex and Burr.
> 
> More characters will show up as I figure out ways to incorporate them. I already have some very exciting plans for some perhaps unexpected characters, but I'm struggling with how to incorporate others, especially Madison. I have no clue at all what he'll do, poor guy. I welcome suggestions, as well as comments of all kinds. You can also talk to me at my tumblr, windmilltothestars!
> 
> Thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed!


	2. Shots Fired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton and Burr attempt to get to know each other, before seeing their first action as partners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, everyone! Hamilton-Burr dialogue is harder for me than I thought. How familiar is it? How warm? How vulnerable? How open? Still not entirely happy with it, and still didn't hit every point of conversation I wanted to, but I guess we'll just have to wait for it on the rest, because I had to get something out! Enjoy!

Aaron Burr was on his second drink, deaf to the melodious tones of the bar’s piano player and contemplating his future alongside the precinct’s loosest cannon when he felt a tentative hand on his shoulder and a tentative voice asking “Sir?”

  
Burr whirled around and to his surprise found himself again facing Detective Hamilton. Hamilton was looking rather sheepish himself now, and gave a faint and somewhat rueful smile when he saw Burr’s face. “Aaron Burr,” he said, like he was testing out the name, “I’m so sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

  
It took Burr only a split second to realize what he was apologizing for. “Couldn’t convince him, could you?”

  
Hamilton shook his head shamefacedly. _“Didn’t_ convince him,” he admitted. “Alas, I seem to have overestimated my oratorical skills, and after I _promised_ to make him see reason.”

  
Burr shrugged. He hadn’t exactly taken it as a promise, and would have been mightily impressed if Hamilton _had_ succeeded in convincing the captain not to partner them. The captain’s decisions were final, not something his officers could control. “It was out of our hands,” he said, almost consolingly, turning halfway back around and patting the stool next to him. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  
“That would be nice,” replied Hamilton, sinking wearily into the seat beside Burr. He gave a heavy, mournful sigh, but after a moment he suddenly grinned and instantaneously transformed – from gloom to manic determination in a split second. “So, _partner,”_ he said, “I came up with a plan to get us out of this mess. Promotions happen to officers who solve big cases, right? So we’ve just got to find ourselves a big important case to solve, like a serial killer or a huge branch of the mob, have it go all of over the news, and Washington will have no choice but to promote the heroes of the 76th Precinct!”

  
Burr couldn’t help laughing a little as the bartender deposited Alexander’s beer in front of him. Alexander took a large gulp of it right off the bat and stared at Burr like he expected some kind of response. When he didn’t get one, he barreled on, “Don’t you want to be a hero of the precinct? You won’t even have to do that much – I could just solve the case _myself,_ and say we did it together, and get us both promoted! I inferred, from your talk with the captain, that you _want_ to get promoted, yes?”

  
Burr was already regretting pushing his luck like that, and only gave another noncommittal shrug. “I mean, yes,” he admitted, “don’t we all? But it’ll happen eventually. I’m willing to wait for it. I’m not gonna push.”

  
Hamilton was looking at him like he’d started speaking in tongues, and Burr was inclined for a moment to be offended– he didn’t have to _explain_ himself to this guy – but he knew in the end it would be a smoother ride he if he at least tried to get along with his new partner. “I’d rather just keep our heads down, man, is all I’m saying,” he said after a moment. “Just do our job. I’m not big on excitement.”

  
“Then why the _hell_ did you become a cop?” Hamilton laughed, knocking back a good third of his beer in one.

  
“Family legacy,” Burr returned.

  
This made Hamilton pause for the briefest moment, licking his lips before he said, “Alright, that’s fair. But I’m just saying – the sooner we solve a big case, the sooner you can get rid of me! And believe me – one big case is a lot less trouble than being my partner for an extended period of time! And that’s not a _threat,_ Mr. Burr –  that’s just a _fact.”_

  
“Look,” said Burr with a sigh, “if we somehow get landed a big, promotion-worthy case soon, I’m not gonna say no, but in the meantime we’ll probably have to put up with each other for at least a little while. I’m just not gonna _personally_ go looking for any more trouble than is already there, alright?”

  
“Oh, you can leave that part to me! I can find enough trouble for the both of us!”

  
“I have no doubt.”

  
“Excellent!” grinned Hamilton, clapping Burr on the shoulder so hard he nearly knocked the drink out of his hand. “Glad to have you on board, sir!”

  
Still grinning, Hamilton took another enormous gulp of his drink and turned to look over at the piano player. She was singing “Piano Man”, probably her most-requested ballad, and Hamilton closed his eyes in appreciation as she got to the most passionate verse.

  
_And the waitress is practicing politics_  
_As the businessmen slowly get stoned_  
_Yes they’re sharing a drink they call loneliness_  
_But it’s better than drinkin’ alone_

  
Burr, who had been idly sipping his drink for the last half hour and had a drop or two left, watched as Hamilton quaffed the remainder of his own and abruptly stood the minute the song ended. This man couldn’t even _drink_ at his leisure.

  
“Burr,” he said suddenly, “you should – join me at the shooting range. Even if we’re just partners for a month or so – that’s – always the best way for new partners to get the measure of each other! That’s – the first thing I did with my last partner, at any rate. _He_ practically taught me how to shoot!” He looked suddenly unsure. “But then – he’s dead now . . .”

  
Hamilton forced a breath of laughter so humorless is made Burr’s teeth hurt, and wore a twisted, irresolute smile that didn’t reach anywhere near his eyes. Burr, who had been ready to politely decline the offer and settle in for another two drinks and the last hours of peace he was likely to see in ages, experienced a sudden uncomfortable qualm of conscience. “I doubt it had anything to do with the shooting range,” he said mildly, swallowing the last of his own drink, and motioning for the bartender to bring the bill over. “Lead the way.”

  
Surprised gratitude lit Hamilton’s strained features and melted away their unsettling façade. “You mean it?” he asked. “Well, thank you! Here, let me – let me pay!” he said, as they received the bill. “The drinks here are way too expensive let you buy mine, anyways . . .”

  
“I offered,” Burr shrugged as Hamilton dug out his own wallet. “And you came here to find me.”

  
“Oh,” said Hamilton dreamily, glancing away from him, back across the bar, “I didn’t come here for you.” Burr followed his eyes and found they were fixed once again on the piano player, now intoning the final notes of “Hopelessly Devoted.” The woman was, he supposed, rather pretty, with dark eyes and soft smooth black hair. And when she stood and curtsied at the end of her song, she locked eyes with Hamilton from across the bar and beamed.

  
* * *

  
“Man, I missed this,” said Hamilton with a deep sigh as he took aim and fired again, straight and true.

  
“You missed your gun?” Burr wondered, sparing him a sidelong glance. He had been trying to aim for the last ten minutes, and had yet to fire a shot.

  
“All of it,” confirmed Hamilton. “The gun, you know – the _fight,_ the struggle, the action – all of it. Some men look for peace in this life. For stability. For stagnation. I’ll never get it.” He squeezed his one eye shut and fired his last shot. “Now we’ll see how I did,” he said. “How are you doing?”

  
Burr was embarrassed. “I haven’t – fired them all yet,” he said hesitantly. “Just, uh – let me focus.”

  
“Sure.” He removed his safety glasses and began to reel the target closer in. Burr tried his best to ignore the six perfect holes in the featureless target man’s chest. He took aim and fired the first in desperation. He missed. Hamilton was removing his target and not looking at him. He tried again.

  
“You married?” Hamilton asked casually as he leaned on the counter waiting for Burr to finish.

  
“No,” Burr returned shortly. He fired his third shot.

  
“Really? Someone told me you were married.”

  
“Well, it’s not true,” Burr returned.

  
“Mmm. Have anyone special?”

  
“It’s – complicated,” Burr returned, giving up his fourth shot.

  
A breath of laughter escaped from Hamilton. “You care to elaborate?”

  
In sheer impatience, Burr threw away his last two shots at once. “Not really.”

  
“You don’t like to be interrogated, do you?” Hamilton observed amusedly.

  
He shrugged. “I mean, no offense, but she and I are both very private people.”

  
Hamilton nodded nonchalantly. “If I counted right, that was your sixth shot,” he said. “Let’s see how you did.”

  
Burr hesitated. He didn’t want to see the disaster target, and he certainly didn’t want Hamilton to laugh at it. “How – how about you?” he asked. “You have – anyone?”

  
“Well,” said Hamilton, forgetting the guns for the moment, “there’s of course the piano player at the bar, who I’m madly in love with. But never having actually spoken to her out of respect for her working-hours and my own budget and tolerance for overpriced alcohol, it’s not much of what you could call a relationship. Courtly love is more what you’d call it, I suppose. I’ve written poems and everything. But in the meantime, Angelica and I sometimes have our fun.”

  
“Angelica – you mean Angelica Schuyler, the DA? The _terrifying_ DA?” demanded Burr. “You’ve been with _her?_ Man, I tried to hit on her once and she just glared at me and wouldn’t say a word until I cleared off –”

  
“Oh, the trick to it is you have to engage her intellectually,” Hamilton informed him matter-of-factly. “You can let her know she’s gorgeous, but you also have to let her know you respect and admire her mind. So she and I spend half our time when we’re together making out, the other half discussing the nature of justice and the best ideal solutions for dealing with crime. It’s good times. She was actually the first person to take me to that bar – where I first saw the piano player. But anyway, after the third time this happened, I tell her I love her, and she just sighs and says ‘Oh, Alex, I think we’re both getting in a bit too deep,’ and that’s when she decides to tell me she’s already engaged – to some rich English guy, who’s going to come back to New York for her when he finishes wrapping up some really lucrative business deal in Paris or something. But then – we still did it two more times after that, so – I can’t even say what the nature of our relationship is.”

  
“This would be an occasion,” smiled Burr, “where ‘it’s complicated’ would’ve sufficed.”

  
Hamilton gave another forced laugh. “But this way we get to know each other! Anyway – now, come on, let’s see your target. Let’s see how you did!”

  
There was no escaping it. Burr went and reeled in his target. Only three bullet holes were even in it, and only one was anywhere near to the chest. He knew from the start he would regret coming here. And sure enough –

  
“Wow,” said Hamilton, “you’re a _terrible_ shot.” And _why_ exactly had he felt bad for this guy? “It’s good to know,” he laughed, “if we ever turn on each other, that I could take you easily enough. Not that I even plan on turning on you – not unless you turned on me first.”

  
“How comforting,” said Burr impatiently. “You know you should really be more polite to people holding guns, Hamilton.”

  
“I didn’t mean any disrespect,” said Hamilton with perfect innocence, “But I’m not gonna lie. Maybe you had more to drink before I got there – or maybe you’re just out of practice.” He pounced on that as eagerly as a kitten. “You want to go another round?”

  
So you can show off more? “No thank you, Hamilton. I’ve seen enough.”

  
“Then do you want – to get another drink? I made us leave – maybe you wanted –”

  
“No, thank you.”

  
“Do you want me to shut up and leave you alone, then?”

  
_Yes, absolutely._ But the look in Hamilton’s eyes again would not permit that, nor would his own good sense. “No, it’s alright, Hamilton,” Burr sighed. “You just – say everything you think, don’t you? They told me you were a loose cannon; they didn’t tell me you talked so much.”

  
“As _you_ say very little of what you think,” Hamilton observed. “And so the captain thought we’d complement each other. Maybe that makes you such a good interrogator you barely have to fire your gun. Or _maybe_ you’re only pretending to be a bad shot, to lure me into a false sense of security. That would be good strategy, too, if you wanted to get rid of me, because you could shoot me and make it look like an accident. Everyone would just be like, ‘Well, Burr’s a terrible shot, he just shot Hamilton on accident. It’s tragic, but what’re you gonna do?’ Though I don’t know as they’d want to promote you after that . . .”

  
“My marksmanship is at _least_ on par with your sense of humor, Hamilton,” said Burr, shaking his head.

  
“But come on, it would be the quickest way to rid of me, if you’ve already got that reputation –”

  
“I don’t want to get rid of you, Hamilton,” said Burr.

  
“Well, of course you do,” said Hamilton. “I don’t shut up, and I _insult_ you, and I drag you all over town – why on earth _wouldn’t_ you want to get rid of me?” His laugh was once again so forced it was painful.

  
“I don’t much like change,” Burr shrugged, after considering a moment. “Changing partners _once_ is more than enough excitement.”

  
“And you’ve already changed partners twice!” noted Hamilton.

  
“How did you know –?” Burr began, but was interrupted by both his and Hamilton’s radios going off.

  
“This is Captain Washington, do you copy?”

  
“This is Hamilton; I copy, sir!” barked Hamilton, “And Burr, sir! We’re together.”

  
“Good,” said Washington, “We’ve got a report of shots fired over at a pier on the Hudson. Detective Greene is requesting additional backup. Are you guys close?”

  
“Close enough, sir! We’ll head over immediately!”

  
“Godspeed,” said Washington, and crackled off.

  
* * *

  
The scene at the docks was already mightily chaotic when Hamilton brought their blaring car to a screeching halt, and then seemed to pull the keys out the ignition, open the door, leap to his feet, and pull his gun out all in one singular motion.

  
“NYPD!” he shouted. “Everyone put your hands in the air!”

  
Burr had gotten out of the car now, closed the door behind him and got his first good look at the chaos Hamilton was charging into. There were several large storage containers littering the dock, and several darkly-dressed men with submachine guns firing wildly at the small contingent of cops already gathered in the fray. There was another cop car approaching from behind them – Detectives Jay and Pendleton. Seeing they were soon to be outnumbered, the men in suits apparently decided a tactical retreat was best. Hamilton shot off after a pair of them, disappeared around a corner, firing warning shots at the ground and ordering them to surrender of he would use lethal force.

  
Burr saw a small, darkly-dressed man in a mask slip out of sight behind the same container as Hamilton and decided to follow him. When he rounded the corner, the man had caught up with his fellows, the ones Hamilton was chasing. Hamilton had shot one of them down and the small man was approaching the other. Burr took careful aim, gave a Hail-Mary for luck and began to squeeze the trigger –

  
“WAIT!”

  
It was Hamilton’s voice. “Burr, hold your fire, for God’s sake! Can’t you see he’s on our side?!?”

  
And next second, he saw this was true. His target, who was, on closer observation, completely unarmed, had just tackled the other criminal to the ground, wrestled the gun out of his hand, and was punching him into submission.

  
“Who the hell _is_ this guy?” Burr demanded.

  
Hamilton spared him one awed glance back only to say, “I _like_ this guy!”

  
Suddenly, two more of the thugs rounded the corner, guns blazing. The unarmed man barely even flinched. He stood up – and charged straight for them.  
Hamilton was quick to pull his gun again. Burr made to follow his lead. The criminals fired – Hamilton fired – and Burr fired – and the unarmed man was hit. No one knew whose gun at had done it. He buckled the ground with a strangled scream. But even _that_ did not stop him. He stood again, charging for the thugs, who looked frankly terrified. Hamilton had fired again, and hit one the thugs in the arm. Next second, Detective Pendleton had appeared from behind and disarmed the second.

  
“Is that – all of them?” The hoarse voice belonged to the unarmed man, who was making a valiant effort to remain standing, his hand clenched over his bleeding right shoulder where the bullet had entered.

  
“I think it is,” said Hamilton dazedly, approaching him. The man convulsed forward on his next breath in a manner that vaguely resembled a sigh of relief, and staggered about three more steps before collapsing – into Hamilton’s waiting arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VIGILANTES, man. Might be crossing genres a little. Ah well, my Daredevil phase was quite passionate, and probably colored a bit of what you saw here. This will MOSTLY be a cop drama, though. Just occasional vigilantism.
> 
> It seemed natural to fall into Burr's POV. Future chapters will definitely alternate some, with many from Alex's probably including the next. Stay tuned!
> 
> You have some questions? A couple of suggestions? I enjoy comments!
> 
> Thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed! :)


	3. Johnny Law

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton and Burr learn more about the mysterious man who aided them at the docks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I fear neither death nor pain."  
> "What do you fear, my Lady?"  
> "A cage; to stay behind bars until use and old age accept them, and all chance of valor has gone beyond recall or desire.”
> 
> -Eowyn and Aragorn, The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers

The man did not stay down for long.  He gasped for air for all of five seconds, leaning on Hamilton’s knee, before seizing his shoulder for support and getting to his feet again.

“Relax, you’re alright,” Hamilton told the man, catching hold of him as he stumbled away.  “We’re getting you help.  Burr!  Are all of those gentlemen in cuffs?”

Burr glanced over toward where he’d last seen the thugs.  Pendleton and Jay were escorting the last of them toward their car.

“I’m amazed they’re all still _alive_!” he reported to Hamilton.

“And, uh – these containers?” asked the masked man, gesturing about him to the huge shipping crates that had presumably been what brought them here.  “Did you – open any of them, to see what you were fighting for?”

“Greene opened one,” said Burr.  “Full of lots of bags of powder – probably heroin.  He called in some experts, who’re coming to do a more thorough examination of what we got into here . . .”

“Heroin!” exclaimed the masked man savagely. “I thought –” He made a violent gesture toward the crates, but either overbalanced or unsettled his wound enough to send him buckling to his knees again.

“Why don’t we – worry about that later?” Hamilton asked him.  “We’ll get you help first –”

“There!” the masked man rasped, pointing at one of the black vans at the edge of the dock, presumably what the thugs had arrived in.  “Help me . . . get there.”

“Alright,” said Hamilton, confused but obliging of their wounded supporter.  By the time they had reached the van, the variously wounded and disarmed thugs had been loaded into the other officer’s cars to be escorted away.

“We’ll see you back at the precinct!” called Jay, driving off with a wave.

Hamilton gave him a nod and turned again to watch the masked man, who had just opened the sliding van door and gone inside.  He rummaged under the seat for a few seconds before retrieving a black metal box and sitting down in the van seat to open it.  It turned out to be full of medical supplies.

“I think they – can fix you up at the hospital, dude,” said Hamilton faintly.

“No need,” said the man hoarsely, finally removing his mask to reveal a drawn but handsome young freckled face and a massive quality of dark curls, and giving Hamilton a brief strained smile.  He then seized a knife from the box and effortlessly tore his sleeve off in a few swift precise motions.  “My uncle Joey gave me a crash course in treating bullet wounds.  I’ve gotten pretty good.”

Hamilton watched in stunned silence a moment as the man cleared away some of his blood to get a better look at the bullet hole in his own shoulder.  Then he had to ask.  “Who the hell _are_ you?”

“Johnny Laurens,” he replied faintly, looking up for the briefest moment and offering his thoroughly bloodied left hand, the right being incapacitated.  Hamilton took it, which seemed to surprise him.

Burr now demanded, “Laurens?  As in _Henry_ Laurens?  The - the mob boss?”

“The very same,” breathed the man, and with a husky laugh he added, “Or, if you like, some people call me Johnny Law.”

* * *

He had gotten his nickname at the age of sixteen.  His father and a couple of his lieutenants were having a meeting in a warehouse beside the mall, and had left their brood of children, his siblings and cousins – some by blood and some by a looser definition of “family” – one hundred dollars each and several hours to entertain themselves at the mall while the grown-ups conducted business.  As the oldest in the bunch, Johnny was left in charge, much to the resentment of Tori, the next-oldest of is cousins.

Johnny had been determined not to spend a cent, except on dinner. He followed the bunch from store to store, doing less overseeing than torturing himself for not objecting more strongly to his father for this blatant excess: ten mafia brats needed _one thousand dollars_ between them to stay entertained for all of two hours, when his friend Cisco’s dad barely even made that much in a month?  What the hell was five-your-old Jemmy going to spend a hundred dollars on anyway?  But Johnny had let his objections be shot down easily, let himself continue to uphold this system that made the poor suffer and was fast-converting most of his cousins into entitled little terrors.

Case in point: what finally tore his mind from this miserable reverie was the sight of Tori trying to stuff a slinky blue dress into her purse.

“Tori, what are you doing?  Put that back!” he snapped, snatching it away from her.

“But I want it,” she whined.

“Then _pay_ for it!  God knows you’ve got enough money!”

“Keep your voice down!” she hissed.

“No!  I’m not gonna let you steal!”

“Oh my _God_ , Johnny,” she moaned as if this was the most unreasonable and unfair constraint she’d ever been given.  Perhaps it was.

“Is this guy bothering you?” asked a short, tough-looking customer assistant, materializing from between the two rows of dresses.  She was giving Johnny the evil eye, and Johnny’s temper flared dangerously.  Of _all_ the injustice, when _he_ was trying to do what was right!

“We’re just arguing fashion,” dismissed Tori, “you know men – _no_ taste.  You think this dress matches my eyes?”

“Perfectly,” said the assistant, not sparing a glance at the dress, but shooting Johnny another ‘I’m watching you’ glare before stalking off.

 “That settles it,” said Tori with a shrug. “I need this dress.  And I’m not going to pay for it.”

“Yes, you _are_ ,” Johnny insisted.

“Alright, alright,” said Tori with a long-suffering sigh, removing the $100 bill from her wallet.  Then in one swift motion she tore the bill in half, splitting Benjamin Franklin’s face cleanly in two.  “Oops, no I’m not!”  With a wicked grin, she seized the dress and began to walk away out of the store.  “Good talk, Johnny!”

“No, you don’t!” said Johnny, making a frantic grab for the dress – and promptly tearing it clean in half.

“Now look what you’ve done!” she shrieked, summoning the rude shop assistant to the scene of her distress again.

“I didn’t mean to –” began Johnny hopelessly.

“You break it, you buy it,” insisted the shop assistant, her arms crossed fiercely.

He had a violent urge to shout, _Well, you heard her, Tori!  Now pay for the damn thing!_ But – the fault of “breaking it” being, in truth, equally theirs, Johnny took the full share.  He paid for the ripped dress, and paid for an undamaged one for her as well, because she was still lusting after it and he didn’t see any way he could convince her to pay for it herself.  Then Tori helpfully told the rest of her cousins that they didn’t have to pay either – cousin Johnny had generously volunteered to pay for everything.  Harry immediately threw his PSP game in Johnny’s basket.  Cousin Rocky, cousin Vincent, cousin Rosa and cousin Isabella gleefully threw in their purchases all in.  Martha only gave him a slightly pitying look. Thank God Jemmy and cousin Carlotta were too young yet.

For all this, he was amazed his one hundred dollars was even enough.  He had barely five cents left when they’d finished shopping, admiring all their new gifts from Johnny, and Harry began to express how hungry he was, directing their steps toward the food court.  As they passed by a harmless-looking mall cop, Johnny squirmed, imagining the man could see straight through him.  Even though – _calm down, Johnny_ – he’d made sure everything was paid for, he instinctively pulled Jemmy closer to him.  His well-conditioned gut still told him cops were the enemy.  Or, more accurately, that all the family were enemies of this embodiment of law and order, and must needs be guilty by association.

As everyone went cheerfully off to pay for their meals, Johnny sat alone at a table to watch them, again disproportionately miserable about the entire encounter in the shop.  Eating something would probably put him in a better frame of mind, but he literally didn’t have two nickels to rub together anymore, and he’d rather starve than use his well-monitored emergency credit card or call his dad asking for _more_ money.  He would starve that evening, and his protesting stomach would be his badge of honor, his secret rebellion, his solidarity, and his penance.

This resolve lasted until Jemmy, seeing him alone and without dinner, sat down next him and offered him half his French fries.  Johnny smiled and set Jemmy on his lap, thanking him with a smile full of fries, and then earnestly thanked God for the gift of Jemmy to save him from his stupidest designs.

When at last the adults returned, their business concluded, to claim their children from Johnny’s care, Tori’s father Uncle Mickey asked her, “Did you have a good time, princess?”

Looking directly at Johnny with a shrewish expression, she replied, “Augh, no, _Johnny_ _Law_ ruined _all_ our fun!”

The rest of the cousins and Harry laughed at the moniker, wondering how no one had thought to call him that before, but no one’s laugh was louder than her father’s when he said, “Believe me, I know the feeling.”

* * *

 

Laurens wanted to speak to the captain, and Hamilton thought it only fair to give him that chance, and helped him into the car.  He drove the three of them back to the precinct, Burr shotgun and Laurens panting in the backseat, hand clamped tightly over his hastily-bandaged shoulder.

 

When they arrived, Hamilton steered Laurens straight to the captain’s office, pausing only to peek in at the jail cells and give a gloating smile to one of the thugs he had personally disarmed.  Greene was currently in the office, giving his report of the incident, while Pendleton, Jay, and the others hung back.  Pendleton gave Hamilton and his bedraggled charge a nervous smile.

 

“No bodies?” piped up a small drawling voice, and everyone turned hastily to face James Madison, the medical examiner, out on a rare sojourn from the safety of his lab, with McHenry, his enthusiastic intern, at his heels.

 

“No bodies,” confirmed Burr.  “Damned lucky thing, the number of machine guns they had.”

 

“And damned lucky for them Hamilton’s such a good shot, so he could avoid lethal force!” added Pendleton, grinning.

 

“Less lucky for Hamilton, when the captain reminds him of the legalities,” Burr said gravely.

 

“You think I should have just killed them?” Hamilton spat.

 

“I’m not saying what I think, Hamilton, just the legalities that are gonna come back to bite you – and I recall very well the one that says there’s no such thing as a situation that calls for firing your gun that doesn’t call for lethal force: if you could get away without killing them, then you could get away without firing your gun at all.”

 

“And do you agree with that?” Hamilton demanded, turning to glare at Burr, his eyes blazing.

 

“I wasn’t saying whether I did, I was just warning you –”

 

“But I’m asking if _you_ agree with it!”

 

There was a long beat while Burr drew breath, but before he could say anything, another voice unexpectedly chimed in.

 

“I don’t.”

 

Everyone turned to stare at Johnny Laurens, who was still leaning on Hamilton and clutching his shoulder. When he looked up and saw all the cops staring at him, he only set his jaw and shrugged.  “I’m just saying . . .”

 

“What _are_ you saying?” asked Pendleton curiously.

 

“I’m saying,” said Laurens, “I’m saying it was a war zone – those men were firing on his comrades, and Hamilton would have been fully _justified_ , legally, in using lethal force.  But since his shot was accurate enough to avoid it, he chose the more merciful option, and that –” he turned to glance at Hamilton, taking a breath – “that is to be admired.”

 

Hamilton’s face was just shifting from embarrassment to smugness when the door to Captain Washington’s office opened and Greene came out.  Without a second’s pause, he seized Burr and Laurens both by the arms and dragged them straight into the office.

 

“Hamilton, what’s this?” demanded the captain, who was on his feet, several file folders in his hands, wearing a harassed expression.  In Burr’s quiet opinion, this was not the best time – if there was any such thing – to be dragging in wounded civilians and explaining that they were the vigilante sons of mob bosses who wanted to help overthrow their fathers by throwing themselves straight into harm’s way.  He attempted to fade into the background behind Hamilton – a nonverbal way to communicate he had no part in this – but, being taller, failed.

 

“This man aided us at the docks, sir,” Hamilton said.  “He is to be commended for that.  And he requested to speak to you!”

 

Washington gave Hamilton a glare – he didn’t get to demand such things from his captain – but nonetheless turned to face Laurens gamely.

 

“Well, young man?  What did you want to say to me?”

 

“Sir!” said Laurens, letting go of Hamilton and stepping forward intently.  “I’ve come – to offer you – my services.”

 

“Yes, Detective Greene has been telling me about your ‘services’,” the captain noted gravely.  “Hardly on par with police policy.  What kind of a man, I ask you, joins a fight with the mob, unarmed, in a mask, and then accompanies the officers back to the precinct and shows their captain his face?”

 

“I didn’t know – if the police were going to come, sir,” said the young man.  “I didn’t know – if they’d taken my anonymous tip seriously.”

 

There was an odd sympathy in the Captain’s eyes now.  “You were the anonymous tip,” he said after a moment, not a question.

 

“Yes,” breathed Laurens, going slightly paler, “And I just wanted to be sure – if the police didn’t believe me or were too busy – that –”  He put his hand on the desk to steady himself and forced another deep breath.

 

“Are you alright, son?” asked the captain.  Hamilton, deeply attentive, put up a finger a moment and ran from the room, returning mere seconds later with his own desk chair, which he placed in front of the captain’s desk, and which Laurens gratefully lowered himself into.

 

Washington, who had been going to suggest, for the young man’s health, that this interview could wait, silenced himself. There was a look in both his and Hamilton’s eyes that told him positively that he was going to sit here and hear him out, right now.  So he simply sighed, and offered the young man the bottle of ibuprofen he kept in his desk.

 

“So,” said Washington, when Laurens looked marginally more comfortable, “you somehow know that tonight at the docks there will be some kind of deal involving shipments of heroin and several men with machine guns, believed to be low-ranking members of the Laurens crime family. What I want to know first – is how you knew about it.”

 

“Henry Laurens is my father,” said Laurens immediately.  “You – you’re a captain, you must know all about my father. He’s a very – a very _evil_ man, sir.  And I had stood idle for far too long.  But I didn’t quite get it right, sir – _I_ had heard he’d gotten involved in a new business – a new – a new _product_ – not just heroin, but _people_ –”

 

He shook his head in a violent, dispelling way.  Washington imagined he would have kicked the desk if he were still standing.  The boy would have fit right in here.  Washington was not surprised when this seemed only to deepen Hamilton’s concern for him, and he placed a protective hand on his shoulder and stood steadily beside him.

 

“And you couldn’t stand idly by anymore,” Washington finished gently, favoring him with a rare smile.  “Had to ‘dissent from the indifference’.”

 

“And the apathy and the fear, sir,” returned Laurens earnestly, impressed.

 

“John, is it?” asked Washington, who had looked up the children of noted crime lord Henry Laurens in the computer’s files.

 

“Johnny,” he returned.

 

“Johnny,” repeated the captain, “I’m very glad you have no intention of entering the family business, and are committed to opposing his practices and being of help to the cause of justice. However, you are a civilian –”

 

“I am not, sir,” Laurens interrupted, “I was - _am_ a Seaman Apprentice in the United States Coast Guard; you can look it up!”

 

“Be that as it may,” said the captain, “you’re clearly not on active duty, and not following orders or wearing your uniform.  And this is not your jurisdiction.  Now, as I said, I appreciate your patriotism and desire to help, but as you are not a policeman, you must understand that we cannot allow you to continue the kind of ‘services’ you’re offering.”

 

“Could you not consider them citizen’s arrests, sir?”

 

“You were not arresting anyone, from what Greene said.  And more to the point, your actions were clearly premeditated.  It is the police’s business, first and foremost, not the private citizen’s, or indeed, even the military’s, what happens on these streets.  Now, this first time I can grant you clemency, but in the future –”

 

“You want me to do nothing," Laurens finished for him.  "But with all due respect, sir,”– and _this_ young man said it without a single hint of contempt or artifice – “you _cannot_ ask me to _sit idly by_ while my father has _human souls_ carted across the seas to be bought and sold as _property_!”

 

Washington sighed.  “There might be – other ways you can help us.  Intelligence about our enemies is always useful to us, for instance – like your tip today.  An inside man with a connection as close and unshakeable as the boss’s own _son_ would be an invaluable resource.”

 

Laurens put on a weary smile.  “The problem with intelligence work, sir, is – I would have to spend time with my family, and pretend to agree with them.  And I don’t think – I could make a very good spy – I’m much too earnest, much too impulsive.  The secret wouldn’t last a day, even if my father could believe in the first place that I’d actually had such a massive change of heart.”

“You think he’d suspect you?” Washington asked. “His own son?  Fathers can be – rather indulgent – and rather blind – when it comes to their sons.”

“Not all fathers,” said Johnny darkly.  Hamilton’s grip on his shoulder tightened.  “He doesn’t trust me any further than he can throw me.  Never has.  And I don’t think I could sell a lie that big to _anyone_.  It was – purely chance I even heard what was going on today.  I mean, I’ll do what I can since you don’t have any other informants, but –”

 

“Oh, we do have _one_ inside man – Detective Mulligan – and he is _rock-steady,_ a natural –”

 

“Hamilton!” Washington snapped warningly, but the damage was done.

 

“Sorry, sir – see, this is why _I_ could never be a spy . . .”

 

“ _Detective_ Mulligan?” Laurens demanded.  “ _Hercules Mulligan,_ my father’s best money-launderer, is an undercover cop?!?  Well, no wonder I liked him so much!”

 

Washington sighed.  “He sent us the tip about the docks about an hour before you did.  Now you know, and now we’re forced to trust you with the secret. You’re not to breathe a word of it to anyone.  And I don’t care if it’s not your temperament – you have no reason to speak of it in the first place.  Do you understand?”

 

“Perfectly, sir,” Laurens nodded.  “And I thank you for your trust.  May I – let Mulligan himself know that I know?”

 

“Only in a location he himself has approved as discreet,” said Washington.  “We can’t have anyone else hearing that conversation.”

 

“Understood, sir.”

 

“There’s no need to call me ‘sir’ if you don’t work for me.”

 

“Wishful thinking, sir?”

 

Washington shook his head with a heavy sigh. “Go along with you, young man!  If I think of a way to make use of you, I’ll be in contact, but in the meantime please try to let the police do their jobs.  Now, even if you don’t want a hospital and think you’re fine, please go have Mr. McHenry examine your shoulder – he’s got lots of experience patching up reckless officers.  Burr, you’re also dismissed.  I need to speak to Detective Hamilton alone.”

 

Silently and with dual respectful nods, Burr and Laurens left the room. 

 

The moment they were out the door, Washington was on his feet.

 

“You let that slip on purpose, Hamilton!”

 

“Of course I did,” said Hamilton, maddeningly calm for once.  “You were being so stupid about trusting him – I had to force your hand somehow.   And God knows it’s got to comfort him to know he has an ally in that godforsaken family!”

 

“And since when are _you_ so quick to trust, Hamilton?”

 

“You didn’t see him,” Hamilton shrugged.  “There is no way his stunt at the pier could be an act – and come on, _you_ liked him!”

 

“Yes, but as you like to laugh about, you know I like any and all young people who are passionate about justice!  _Liking_ him isn’t the point!  Trusting him is – and now a near-stranger knows the identity of our undercover agent – and we can only go on trust that that secret will hold with him, or our whole operation against the Laurenses is in shambles and Mulligan is lost forever – probably to the bottom of the river!”

 

Hamilton shrugged. “You really think he's going to betray us?  He's going to understand those risk better than anyone - and he said he was friends with Mulligan!”

“Hamilton," the captain sighed, "yes, my gut tells me he has only the purest motives, but we can’t just trust our gut with something like this! And even if he’s as sincere as he seems – even that might not be enough. He was the first to admit how his personality wasn’t the sort to keep secrets!  It’s an awful risk, Hamilton.  It was over the line for you to tell him!  It was over the line to even _bring_ him here!”

 

“I understand your position, sir, but – I’m not sorry,” returned Hamilton defiantly. “What, are you going to fire me?”

 

Washington buried his face in his hands.  “No,” he said miserably, “but, Alexander I _swear_ . . . Now, get out of here and make sure Mr. Laurens gets home alright – and _don’t_ try to invite him to do side-investigations with you or something.”

 

“What I do in my time off is not yours to dictate, Captain,” said Hamilton with dignity. “Besides, you're always telling me I should spend more time with other people, and make more friends!”

 

“Oh, just get out of here!”  Washington begged, and then, after a pause, added, “Drive safe!”

 

Hamilton gave an exaggerated bow of acknowledgement, wearing a wide, impish grin, and made for the door, picking up his desk chair on the way out.  Before he was gone, however, he turned back and asked, “Glad I’m back at work, sir?”

 

Shaking his head in exasperation, Washington replied, “More than you know, Hamilton.”

 

Less than ten minutes later, Hamilton and Laurens had sped off into the night.  Burr, had watched them while filling out his after-action report at his desk, resignedly went to ask Madison for a ride home – or at least back to the shooting range to retrieve his car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, yeah, you’re getting quotes at the beginning of chapters now because I’m super-pretentious and get most of my joy in life by drawing thin thematic connections between everything I love.
> 
> Anyway, sorry for not "getting my act together" and posting this sooner – it’s been over a month now, alas. And since I have a few other projects demanding my attention, you might not get the next chapter for a few weeks as well. HOWEVER, I have made great progress on the overall timeline of events and character introductions in this story, so I have a hope that after next chapter I will hit a great stride and be able to publish more often and regularly. Yes, we must always live in hope.
> 
> I decided to call him “Johnny” instead of just John PURELY because it seemed like more of a mafia name. Similarly, the reference to his friend “Cisco” – short for “Francisco” – is meant to be an analogue of John Laurens’s IRL friend Francis Kinloch. I just – don’t like the name Francis. Other minor name changes might occur, but they won’t go overboard – like, I’m ninety percent sure I’m going to make Pendleton a woman named “Natalie” just because I don’t want all the cops – most of whom are based on soldiers – to be men. 
> 
> Also, I must thank my many media sources for their information and inspiration about the mafia – watching lots of Gotham and Daredevil recently has been helpful. And if you ever read Gordon Korman’s book Son of the Mob, it’s a surprisingly thoughtful look at a the impact of a nice kid who was raised in a mob family. I recommend it highly.
> 
> As always, hit me up with your questions, suggestions, observations, etc. – either here or at my tumblr, windmilltothestars. Thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed! :)


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